


Young and Radical

by Trombonesonmars



Category: Homestuck
Genre: F/M, Rebellion, Redglare more like RADglare, Young Redglare and Mindfang with their pre-scratch personalities
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-07
Updated: 2013-10-07
Packaged: 2017-12-28 16:51:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/994258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trombonesonmars/pseuds/Trombonesonmars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Latula Pyrope, aspiring legislacerator, finds herself tricked into attending a meeting of rebels, under the impression it is a skating meetup. Trying (and failing) to not draw attention to herself, she listens in on the sermon of a kind old troll known as The Disciple; at first she intends only to gather information of any illegal activity that might be going on, but through the stories told at the meeting she finds herself drawn to the man once known as The Signless.</p>
<p>Also she is subjected to a pawsitively purrposterous purrfusion of cat puns.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Young and Radical

**Author's Note:**

> This has been heavily edited, but I originally wrote it for HSWC Bonus Round 1, prompted by sempiternalserpent:
> 
> Redglare diamonds/hearts Signless (one-sided/seperated by time like in canon)
> 
> " You held your head like a hero  
> On a history book page  
> It was the end of a decade  
> But the start of an age "  
> -"Long Live," Taylor Swift

You are Latula Pyrope, aspiring legislacerator, and this is NOT the sort of party you thought it was.

 

It turns out that THE YOUNG RADICALS is not actually a group of r4d sk4t3rs like yourself, as your ‘friend’ had implied. Or had she? Whatever.

 

So, due to a silver-tongued schemer by the name of Serket, you find yourself in a storm cellar filled with a dozen or so drab lowbloods clutching rusted weapons that were almost certainly  above their caste-grade; that shit looks way illegal. They were clustered around a lamp-lit dais, in the middle of which stands an older troll with long, wild hair who is smiling, speaking more loudly than is really necessary in such a small space, and handing out yellowed papers to the group. Welp! It looks like they are pretty ‘radical’ in terms of their politics, so Aranea wasn’t straight-up lying, but you are still so going to _run over her toes_ with your board next time you see her smug little bitch-ass face. Bad hate friend. Worst rival.

 

Putting thoughts of future vengeance aside, you turn your focus back to the lowbloods—although maybe in this environment you should stick with the term ‘warmblood’— who are giving you the side eye as you hover towards the back of the chamber in your brightly-colored skater gear decked out in teal and white. You smile back weakly, keeping your mouth closed so as not to show off your sharp, even highblood teeth. People tell you they make you look like a seadweller, which is normally kind of neat, but this doesn’t seem like the time or place for showing off.

 

The elder, though, is heading towards you. She is a raggedy sort of greenblood, if her sign is anything to go by, who has great biceps and rocking a dangerously sun-freckled complexion, like wow. Hard core. She smiles, showing off a feline set of white fangs. “Is that a queen all dressed in teal I see in the back? I don’t believe I’ve seen you in my den befur! So how did you find my little hidey-hole, mousey?”

 

An interrogation? You zip your jacket shut to hide the sign on the shirt underneath, and hold your skateboard likewise emblazoned behind your back, briefly wishing it was a weapon; though whether you would want it to fight your way out or to fit in with the crowd you don’t know. “I heard about it from a... friend. Thought I’d check out what’s the downlow.”

 

The statement is as technically true as it is misleading.

 

The old troll draws closer, gesticulating broadly despite the tight space, talking as much with her body as with her hands. “Then welcome! We embrace trolls of all backgrounds, and you show great brave-furry to join our claws. Cause, that is, hehehehe.”

 

The other trolls relax, shifting closer when her speech comes to an end, as though this old woman’s acceptance phrased in feline puns sealed the question of your allegiances. She totally shouldn’t think you’re some coconspirator though, because you are most definitely not the type of girl to mess around with a shady crowd! Aranea’s shadiness at least maintains a cover of plausible deniability. Most of the time.

 

But this bizarrely NICE old lady is trusting you like an ally with these people’s secret hideout, when really you just bumbled in here like a noob lured into a boss-level with no powerups. As long as they are being chill with you in this ‘den’ of iniquity, though, you might as well return the favor and show some respect.

 

The least you can do is hear these guys out, right? If this-- gang? Please let it just be a gang-- is planning anything too gnarly it’s your duty as a subject to report it to the authorities, so you might as well gather some intel.

 

Besides, trying to hightail it out of an underground room the middle of a secret meeting of hopefully-not-rebels is probably not the best plan for being inconspicuous, anyway. “That’s super, uh, Ma’am. The name’s Latula.” You raise your fist for a bump of greeting.

 

The old troll looks confused—did you do something wrong?

 

One of the younger trolls chuckles and leans down to the old troll’s ear (damn, but she’s short for an adult) and whispers something in between breathy giggles. You feel embarrassment writhe in your chest, but instead of mocking you, the woman laughs loud and happy, curling her gnarled hand into a fist and bumps it against yours. “Kittens these days! You never fail to teach me new things. Anyways, here’s the mewsletter.”

 

You accept a folded sheet of paper from her calloused hands as she continues delivering them throughout the room. The… oh, the newsletteris folded in three columns with small, smudged font packed together in large paragraphs with a few grayscale photos interspersed between them. About half of the columns pertain to recent events; grisly lynchings of rebels that you remember from the newsfeeds, weapons stockpiles those newsfeeds had assured you the rebels DID NOT HAVE (holy shit these guys are legit rebels), and a few older, grainier photographs of a homely young troll with small horns, wrapped in a rumpled, out-of-date, travelling cloak. His tired, hard eyes stare out at you from the page, and it’s like his somber expression is just for you, judgingyou for being where you don’t belong, for letting these people think you’re something you aren’t.

 

Skimming over the more gruesome bits, you read the pamphlet to give you something to do other than pretend you don’t notice the little snuck looks you’ve been getting—maybe you’ll search the rest of it later for anti-imperial propaganda—your eyes come to a stop at what looks like a short bio for the guy. _Hatched from the Mothergrub with no chance of a lusus_ (bummer)... _taken care of by a rogue jadeblood_ (that’s kinda skeevy, actually)... _self-taught philosopher_ (what is that even supposed to mean) and ok THAT bit is why his picture is in this thing. He's the whack job who got captured and broiled all those sweeps back for trying to get the law-abiding subjects of Alternia riled up against the empress.

 

So. Just another dead face staring at you. There might be no gallows in the picture frame, but the end-result is the same.

 

The low rumble of voices in the room peters off and you look up from the old pictures. On the podium the ancient troll leading the meeting has begun her speech.

 

She starts out with a story about her cluster of comrades, and of happy times in the wilds beyond the cities. The Disciple—that is the old woman’s title, which now that you think about it, you might have heard somewhere before—apparently actually knew the rebel guy in the picture, because her reminisces have too many funny little details to be fabricated.

 

Like, the guy, or as she says “the Signless, the Sufferer-to-Be” once rebelled as a wiggler against his lusus and refused to slay the pincerbeast she and the Disciple trapped one night for supper. To their great consternation, the Signless had freed it and tried to befriend it. The Disciple smiles a wistful smile as she tells the gathering how all the thanks he got for releasing it were some cuts and bruises as the crab tried to escape, along with a torn pant-leg that got him a harsh scolding from his lusus. Disciple reminds the group that the Sufferer’s lusus’ title (what a concept) is the Dolorosa, and that it is rude to misname a troll so long as they are Good. Though she does admit that _Trollmom_ is “purrety much the best title fur anyone, efur.”

 

Once the Disciple finishes her story she pauses while the gathered trolls comment to each other on the story. You frown, uncomfortable with the restless whispers of the weapon-bearing trolls around you that ask each other when they think “useful shit will start.”

Hella rude! It was a cute story, and way more fun to listen to than the rambly ones Aranea goes off on all the time. Ok, maybe Aranea’s stories set the bar pretty low in terms of interestingness, but the point stands.

 

You can’t help but squirm as you keep in your comments, rocking back and forth on the balls of your feet, anxiously spinning the wheels of your skateboard with your thumbs.

 

Apparently your nervous energy is obvious, because even with all the other trolls in the cellar, the Disciple notices your behavior. She clears her throat above the low rumbling of the room and tilts her head at you. “It looks like our new kitten in the back has something on her mind. Don’t be shy now!”

 

Your heart speeds up, as suddenly all of the attention is back on you, and there is no WAY you won’t be shy now. “So I was thinking that, like, your friend tried to free the crab, er, pincerbeast from being dinner and got himself burned, right?”

 

The Disciple meets your gaze, her thick eyebrows raised.

 

“Which is just like, you know,” You are feeling majorly self-conscious in front of these random trolls now, what lameness is that, “how he got creamed by the ‘Juggulators and Archeradicators and all that noise.”

 

The room goes dead quiet and you think that maybe that wasn’t the most eloquent way to say that.

 

Some of the trolls are glaring at you, but others are just serious or thoughtful. The Disciple just looks far away and sad.

 

She nods, her face more serious than it has been all night. “Yes. Trollkind was not ready for his kindness, like a big, crabby beast that didn’t know how good it had it. But he wasn’t sorry that he tried to help the pincerbeast. He got bruises, an empty stomach, and felt betrayed, sure. Howefur, even as he yowled and growled about the ungrateful beast, he begged us to not go hunting after it again.”

 

You meet her eyes. “He didn’t want his pain to get wasted?”

 

“Yes, purrcisely.” She flashes a sharp-toothed smile. “Which is why we are here tonight! To speak of ways to show catitude... _gratitude_ for his kindness all those sweeps ago, and to live free as best we can. There are those who want us to roll over and give up, but  we catnot! We must not behave as prey, with fear and hatred, lashing out at those who may be a purrtential ally; by showing mercy we prove ourselves as more than just beasts.”

 

She goes on to tell the group some recent news about various resistance groups or whatever, but the idea of that young Signless-Not-Yet-the-Sufferer and his desire to help those around him distracts you. The image of the somber face in the pamphlet softened into kindness and hope, frozen in shock, then twisted in anger makes you imagine being there. Not as a hunter like the Disciple and Dolorosa were, but as a liberator, by his side as he cut the net. Pulling him back from the snapping claws. Assuring him he did the right thing even though it was kind of stupid.

 

You look down at a picture of him that’s gone soft-edged and vague from the photo being re-scanned over and over again, and think that maybe if someone was there, maybe like you (which is totes ridiculous, but who cares) that maybe he would have had more reason to smile.

 

You’re still not sure about this whole rebellion of theirs, but you don’t think you’ll be reporting them to the authorities after this. After all, it wouldn’t be fair to bite the hand that fed you.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks goes out to my beta, LadyMurasaki, for all her hard work and assistance on this, especially with Disciple!


End file.
